


I Shake- For the Reeking Flesh Is As Romantic As Hell

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Canon-Typical Violence, Disturbing Themes, Grimy cupboard fuck, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Morbid, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Psychiatric Hospitals, incarceration, terrible people doing terrible things, violent imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 08:51:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13994766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: Research has pierced all extremes of my sex.  Call it a day.





	I Shake- For the Reeking Flesh Is As Romantic As Hell

**Author's Note:**

> While the actual violence is typical of what happens on Gotham, some of the imagery and the discussion of death go beyond it. Please use your discretion, Dear Readers.  
> The title of this story and the quote in the summary come from David Bowie's song, The Voyeur of Utter Destruction (As Beauty).  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

What’s your secret?  
Your secret is that…  
Sometimes, it gets boring, having everything. If you have everything, you have to do everything. People look at you, waiting for orders, and if you just don’t feel like doing it- it can be kind of a chore.   
Anything is a trial, if you don’t want it.  
Sometimes, Jerome actually hides. When he does, he almost hopes that some of the crazies will come looking for him, not to ask him what he wants them to do, but to drag him from his hiding place, kicking and screaming, hold him aloft, and forcibly carry him to his place of execution. Oh, he’ll be fighting and protesting all the way, but not too hard. If he frees himself, he won’t get to see what happens next. There’s nothing better than seeing what happens next.  
There’s a series of supply closets in a hallway with a dead end. No one ever comes here, because it’s not even a fun place to corner someone. It’s too private. If you’re going to make a mess, you want someone to see. The remains only tell so much of the story; it’s like reading the epilogue and trying to put together what happened in the rest of the novel. You have to see the whole thing. You have to, or it’s too quiet. Death begins to seem peaceful. There’s no peace in death.  
Death is hot and crowded, and it cramps up your guts and sucks the feeling from your limbs. Losing blood hurts. Being unable to breathe hurts. You piss and shit yourself, like your body thinks that it can keep something of life in by letting something of life out. Why would you want to miss all of that?  
But quiet- that’s like being dead. When you’re dead, nothing happens. Sometimes, Jerome misses it. In the dark, he tries to remember it. His brain can’t, but his body sort of can. In the dark, he can begin to feel like he has no body, at all.  
A light comes on, in the closet next to this one, which has more space, so Jerome doesn’t like it. It’s better to be crammed in among mismatched objects, crushed in their embrace, like you were one of them. Irritably, Jerome narrows his eyes. If that janitor doesn’t get his stuff and leave in a hurry, Jerome is going to have to kill him. On Jerome’s day off, too. No rest for the wicked. Jerome shakes his head. Slowly, he raises himself up, standing on a bucket, and looks through the grate into the next closet.  
Well.  
That’s not a janitor.  
Jerome touches his mouth to make sure that he’s smiling.  
It’s that skinny guy who was all over the news last year when Jerome was allowed to watch TV in the hospital wing, between reconstructive surgeries. Edward ‘something’. The guy’s seen better days. He’s pale, and his hair is stiff with grease, and there are stains on his shiny green suit. The smell of him blooms up through the closet to Jerome. Jerome touches his face to make sure that he’s frowning. To be fair, though, it’s not just Edward who’s responsible for the stink- unwashed hair and flesh, and old sweat, and moldering fabric- because he crashes into the closet with Oswald, who closes the door behind them.  
Ooh-la-la.  
For a moment, they stand there, looking at each other, and breathing. They put their arms around each other, Edward leaning over Oswald, Oswald standing up on his toes. Aw, Jerome thinks, that’s so sweet. Maybe they fall asleep, because they stay like that for a long time. Ho- hum, Jerome thinks, and looks at the ceiling.  
The sleepers awaken. Oswald crushes his mouth against Edward’s, and Edward breathes in hard through his nose. He puts his hands on Oswald’s shoulders, presses him against the wall.  
“You still want me,” Edward says in a cold voice.  
Oswald smiles, showing all of his teeth, small and sharp like a weasel’s. Jerome feels cheated. Why is this the first time that Jerome is seeing that smile? “Oh, I think you want me, too.”  
“We need each other. I won’t deny it.”  
“Say it,” Oswald says, sticking out his chin, the smile widening, “Admit it.”  
“Yes,” Edward says slowly, grinning though his eyes remain blank, “I do. I want you, Oswald.”  
Then, Edward brings his mouth back to Oswald’s, and Jerome sees a flicker of Edward’s tongue as they kiss again.  
Now, you saw two kinds of couples at the circus. Whores and johns- sometimes, janes- and young thrill-seekers. After a while, you got tired of both. The whores were bored- who could blame ‘em- and the johns were kind of bored, too, like it was this, or spend the money on a movie and a bucket of popcorn. The young thrill-seekers were kind of fun at first, until you realized that you were never going to see anything good, because they mostly kept their clothes on. They were normal people, doing normal stuff. They had clean clothes, and good teeth, and smelled like soap and perfume and peach schnapps. They smiled and laughed, and walked away holding hands. Aside from the time that the girl made the guy call her ‘Mommy’, nothing weird ever happened.  
This, though, is gross. That’s the only word for it. The wound on Oswald’s cheek is weeping, a trickle of pale yellow that looks like honey. When Oswald loosens Edward’s shirt collar, Jerome sees the rope burn on Edward’s neck. Oswald’s fingernails are gray; Edward’s are black around the rims. Edward’s teeth are yellow; Oswald’s are stained brown. Oswald yanks Edward’s undershirt out of his pants, rubs his mouth against Edward chest, his belly. Oswald’s split lip begins to bleed, leaving streaks of orangey red on Edward’s grayish skin. The veins under the skin are almost purple, almost black. It’s like watching two bodies decaying together. They’re both falling apart. Silently, Jerome takes in a breath so full it makes his chest ache.  
Oswald’s hand is up Edward’s shirt as they continue kissing. Jerome watches Oswald’s little hand claw beneath the material, Edward’s body whip under Oswald’s fingernails. Oswald kisses the bruises on Edward’s neck. When he bites, Edward hisses in then blows out, his hands wound so tightly in Oswald’s shirt that his fingers whiten. Then, they’re kissing again, bodies pressed together, Oswald’s hand moving down Edward’s belly. Edward’s hands are under Oswald’s shirt. They’re undoing each other’s pants. Jerome’s already seen Oswald’s cock, but it’s different now. People always look different when they don’t know that you’re watching them. It’s clenched in Edward’s fist now, Edward’s hand moving, Oswald’s hips moving, too. Edward kneels. Jerome only sees the back of Edward’s head, so he watches Oswald. Oswald’s hand resting on Edward’s head, playing with Edward’s hair as his head moves, tugging the clumped, lusterless strands. Oswald’s mouth open, wet, slick with spittle. Oswald’s closed eyes, the lids fluttering. The discharge from the wound on his cheek dries in a glaze, gleaming under the closet’s bare lightbulb. The patch of waxy red on his lower lip. The way his hips move, pumping against Edward’s head. He shoves his hand in his mouth when he comes. As Edward rises, Oswald stands still, breathing heavily, uncovered. The black hairs on his thighs stand out against the white skin. Edward tilts up Oswald’s chin. They kiss. A small, slow stream of white fluid, like a slug, runs out of Oswald’s mouth, down his cheek. Edward licks it.  
Oswald pulls open Edward’s pants. Edward’s cock is very hard, wet at the tip. Edward unbuttons Oswald’s shirt. Jerome recognizes one of the bruises on Oswald’s ribs. He feels a pang. As you always do when you see something that you made, for the first time since you gave it to someone else. It’s like Edward knows, somehow, because that’s the bruise that he touches. Presses his fingers into it, not very hard, but hard enough to make Oswald suck in his cheeks as his head falls back. He holds Edward’s hand there, then moves it up to his nipple. Edward rubs, pinches, as Oswald touches him. Oswald’s hands sweat. That makes it better. Edward shoots against Oswald’s bare skin. Bowing his head, Edward licks it up.  
Then, they’re just holding each other again. They kiss, like cats licking each other. It’s okay, Jerome guesses, after all of the other stuff. People are like this. Jerome doesn’t get it. But variety is the spice of life!  
The air smells like spit and come, and a little, Jerome fancies, like blood. Edward and Oswald get dressed, helping each other with their clothes. Is it Jerome’s imagination, or does Edward look slightly different? It’s like he’s just come into focus. His hair is neater, and doesn’t look as dirty. He buttons the top button of his collar, and tightens his tie. The stains on the suit can’t have vanished. They were probably only shadows. For a moment, Edward and Oswald are motionless, looking down, as though at something only they can see. Then  
they look up. Edward grins, toothy and mirthful. Oswald smiles. His sharp smile, with teeth that Jerome’s never seen. It’s like they’re posing for a photo. So that Jerome almost can’t believe it when they start moving again. It must make him a little bit stupid, because it takes him a second to get off of the bucket. When he does, the door to the closet opens slowly, letting in the soft, late afternoon light from the big, screened window at the end of the hall. Their shadows long, Edward and Oswald stand in the frame of the door, looking in at Jerome.  
They’re still smiling.


End file.
